


Dying Day

by bearlion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Getting Together, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26888539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearlion/pseuds/bearlion
Summary: When the mentally-ill youngest Holmes shows up and announces a case, Dr Watson isn't sure what to think. First, he's never met Sherrinford "Sam" Holmes. Second, is it really a case or a delusion? Or both?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Dying Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before I had seen Series 3. It's been updated to keep as close to BBC Sherlock canon without having Mary Watson or Euros Holmes in it.
> 
> Please be kind. I don't write much beyond academic papers so this isn't my thing.
> 
> If anyone is willing to beta, please let me know.

The little bedroom at the top of the stairs was always tidy. The bedding was worn, but comfortable, made military-neat. The shoes were lined up in a perfect row next to the door. There were a handful of framed and faded photos, well dusted. A shadow box with a few military medals displayed hung by the wardrobe, less well taken care of but still clean. There were books stacked on the windowsill, pushing the curtains against the sides with their weight. medical texts, travel guides and spy novels. The fictions were well worn, spines falling apart and cellotaped back together, the medical texts full of notes in the margins. The walls were painted a light blue, the wood paneling reaching waist-height. The floor was smoothed to a shine by years of tread. It was cosy, all told.

There were days when the rain poured down, the grey sky dark, street sounds muffled. Those days were the easiest to avoid memories of Afghanistan. My shit memories always involved the beating sun.

In the days before Baker Street, there had been an arbitrary date picked. And then, not four days before it, I had heard my name called in the park. My gun had been put to use for something other than what I’d planned, I packed up my meagre belongings, and set about my new life. That had been three years ago.

I followed Sherlock up the stairs, exhausted and lugging my duffel. The case in Finland had been a nightmare, though that wasn’t actually due to the case itself. Sherlock had gotten a text as the stewardess informed them all to turn off their phones and he had spent the rest of the trip in a glowering sulk. Asking what was going on did little more than to garner an irritated huff. The only thing that truly set my friend off like this was Mycroft, so that’s what I assume it was. Dancing around whatever-it-is we are relationship-wise has not made much difference when it comes to the times Sherlock closes off.

He paused at the top of the stairs and frowned. I shifted my bag, preparing for whatever set his spine rigid. The shower, I realised, had been running and now it was turned off. Sherlock glanced at me, nodding, then moving quickly to the door inside his bedroom. I followed, letting my bag drop into my armchair.

There was filthy clothing and muddy boots piled on the floor at the foot of the bed. The bed itself had obviously been slept in while we were gone. As I noticed these things, the door opened. A dark-haired man, wrapped in naught but a towel stood there. Surprise flashed across his face, then it smoothed over into a blankness that I had come to associate with Sherlock and Mycroft pretending they had no emotions (because they did, really. The twats were ridiculously emotional and overdramatic, even if they pretended otherwise to varying levels of success).

I studied the intruder, ignoring his near-nudity. He was thin, nearly emaciated, though wiry with muscle. His skin was pale, covered in freckles, scars, and yellowing days-old bruises. There were tattoos on his arms, one on his left pectoral over his heart of a family crest. The others were of a quality that made me think of prison inkings. His hair was long, nearing his shoulders, and plastered to his neck, curling a bit at the ears. He was taller than me, though shorter than Sherlock. Maybe 5’10” at most. But it was the eyes and cheekbones that gave him away.

He had the same eyes as Sherlock, though the freckle in his iris was on the opposite eye. His nose was upturned in just the same way. And his cheekbones, prominent due to his sunken cheeks, were just as ridiculous.

I knew there was a third Holmes boy, based on what Mrs Holmes said at tea a year or so ago. I’d asked Sherlock about his brother, but he had shrugged and said something about how he was busy. I hadn’t asked Mycroft because, well… asking Mycroft things always felt like I’d wind up owing him a favour.

And here I was, standing with the until-now unseen Holmes brother.

‘Get dressed and meet us in the kitchen,’ Sherlock suddenly said, walking out of the room quickly. I stood awkwardly, nodding and taking my leave. The familiar yet foreign face quirked a small smile as I left.

The next surprise of the day was finding Sherlock setting the table and getting tea ready.

‘Your brother?’ I clarified. He nodded, fumbling slightly with his phone. ‘What’s his name?’ Sherlock held his phone to his ear suddenly and pressed his face against the fridge door. I pursed my lips and headed down the stairs, knowing we had no milk and that Mrs Hudson wouldn’t mind. I nicked it from her kitchen and made my way back upstairs quickly.

‘Don’t tell Mummy just yet,’ Sherlock’s voice said, lowly. ‘I’ll ring if it seems he should be sectioned again, but…. No, Mycroft. It’ll be fine.’ I slipped back into the kitchen, jug of milk in hand. He rang off and turned to me. ‘I ordered pizza. Does that work?’

‘What’s going on?’ My best friend slouched against the fridge and shrugged, eyes closed. Alright then. ‘Can you at least tell me your brother’s name?’

‘He’s - his name is Sherrinford. He goes by Sam,’ he muttered. He stood up straight as footsteps came towards us. Clothed in Sherlock’s ratty pyjama pants and an old dressing gown, Sherrinford leaned against the counter and looked me in the eye for a moment before turning to his brother. His hair, now slightly damp, was a riot of auburn curls.

‘Have fun in Sweden?’ he asked, his voice rough as though from lack of use.

‘Finland,’ Sherlock automatically corrected. ‘When were you released?’ Released. Sectioned. Sam Holmes was a mentally ill man with prison tattoos. He picked at the countertop with long fingers, an ink swallow peeking out from under the sleeve. 

‘Few months ago?’ he said, shrugging. ‘Would’ve popped by sooner, but couldn’t ‘member where you lived for life'a me.’ Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms. I pulled a chair out and sat down to help myself to tea. While interesting, this seemed like it could drag on longer than a visit from Mycroft.

‘Sam, I’ve been at Baker Street with John for three years now,’ came the response. Usually the plain concern in Sherlock’s voice was saved for Mrs Hudson or me, one notable time for Mycroft, so this was different. The brothers stared at each other before Sam tilted his head toward the ceiling and started chewing on a finger. ‘Nobody lives above us. The only thing above us is John’s room and the roof access.’

‘How do you know? There could be anyone living on the roof. I live on roofs sometimes.’ His voice was rushed, anxious. ‘What if someone is up there? What if someone’s watching? Birds could be watching for someone, Liam. Eddie McAvoy told me birds aren't real - they're tiny little drones from the government to watch you. Just like the postman watches you.’ I snorted. I had only recently found out that Sherlock’s first name was actually William - by accident of course. He had left his passport behind in our hotel room and it had caused a mumbled admission when the staff demanded his full name to prove it was his. 

Sam glared at me, squinting. ‘Why do you have a pet Hobbit? Mummy says there aren’t any but he’s right there. So obviously  _ someone  _ was wrong and it wasn’t Tolkien.’

Was he on drugs? I had witnessed Sherlock high before and he only got moodier, manic, more hyper-focused on the case. This was pure delusion. Acid? Prescription drugs of some sort? It had been ages since my consultancy and I rarely dealt with drug addicts at the surgery.

‘This is John. I’ve told you about him.’

‘Excellent,’ Sam grinned widely, showing a missing tooth and stretching the scar on the side of his mouth. ‘I have a case!’ Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out heavily. I looked between the two of them and nodded.

‘Right, then let’s get to it,’ I said, pulling a kitchen chair out by our chairs. ‘Sit down and tell us your case. If it’s less than a three, we won’t take it.’

Sam’s eyes widened and almost glittered with glee. ‘It’s at least a seven!’


End file.
